The Blood And The Taste
by Niphrehdil
Summary: When Sherlock loses John, he gets two of his old friends in return.


Hey!

So this is my first Sherlock fanfic. I'm aware it won't probably get that much attention, so I'll appreciate and worship even more the ones that can take a moment to review this. I'd be very enthusiastic to write more fics.

Summary: When Sherlock loses John, he gets two of his old friends in return.

Warnings: For the angst and the dark themes. I'd like to point out (because I am so paranoid) that the things described in this fic are not acceptable and they're very far from healthy. I'd never encourage anyone to do them in any circumstances.

Rating: M. Because I am once again paranoid.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

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><p>Razorblade.<p>

It had been so long time ago, over a decade, when he had held it in his hand like this. Not to shave, no. Sherlock held the blade between his fingertips tightly. The cold metal started to grow warmer.

He could remember. Every time that he had done it - every time, he had just wanted it more. Felt lust to do so. Got addicted. Then one time, Mycroft had walked in on him, and panicked. And that was the only time Sherlock had ever seen his brother in panic.

The stupid big brother told Mummy, of course. Sherlock didn't really bother to care. He had never been sentimental about anything - about his brother or the rest of his family, or even himself. He didn't value those kinds of things.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

Sherlock had been absolutely sure that he would never care about anything enough to get sentimental. It made things a lot easier. His head was swirling with countless thoughts and deductions all the time - people and their personalities didn't fascinate him. Science and physics did.

Then of course, he had met John.

Sherlock lifted the razorblade into mid-air, watching closely how the light reflected on its surface. Smoothly, it slided up and down, up and down. Sherlock let out a crooked smile. The sight was satisfying.

John was simple. An idiot like everyone else - ordinary brains, unobservant mind. But there was something that didn't make him as ordinary as everyone else was. For the first time when John had breathed out the word 'amazing' describing the consulting detective, Sherlock had felt a warm rush go through himself. Just like that. Like it was a normal feeling. Expect it wasn't. He had never felt anything like that before - pride, joy.

Everyone had hated him, always. It wasn't that much of a big deal. People got annoyed when Sherlock read them like open books with a font sized 72. He had grown to consider this reaction as normal and inevitable.

Sherlock put the razorblade on the table for a moment. He reached out for the needle. Raising it to the air above him, he watched through it to the dim ceiling. There was a bullet hole up in it, probably caused by an attack of assasins or his own boredom.

John had _liked _him. Something nobody ever did. He got used to Sherlock's odd habits, his bad appetite, his endless violin concertos in the middle of the night, the body parts in the fridge...He got used to Sherlock himself. And didn't just get used to - he had grown attached. John smiled, laughed. Sometimes got annoyed or frustrated, but never enough to leave or move out. He always came back. Always took care of Sherlock, was always there with him. Everywhere they went, John was there by his side.  
>And somewhere along the way, Sherlock had grown sentimental. He <em>liked<em> John.  
><em>He<em> liked John.

It was one of the hardest and oddest things to admit, but it was the truth. Sherlock cared. It was a dangerous disadvantage, he knew it. The way his heart started pounding when a gun was pointed to the doctor's head, when the adrenaline and _fear _ran in his veins for the horrible thought of losing John, his John, his captain, his _friend_... It was a soft spot Sherlock had never had. John, the small army doctor. John, the ridiculously loyal flatmate. John, the heartbreakingly dead John.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and turned the needle towards himself. One single soft push and it sank in. His seven percent solution was only seconds away. Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt the sweet drug starting to spread to his system.

Oh, how he had missed this. Some old memories from his teenage years were awaken, but he ignored them. This was what he had used to do, every day.

Sherlock waited.

Minutes.

Tick tock.

His body became relaxed. His mind went dull. All of a sudden, his sharp senses were fading and his mind going quiet. It was almost euphoric, this. Being ordinary. Being stupid.

_When you have nothing left to break, you have to tear yourself apart._

There was one thing that would complete this sensation. Sherlock picked the razorblade up. Letting out a deep, satisfied sigh, he sank deeper to the sofa. Deeper to the silence. He rolled his sleeves up. The yellow smiley face stared blankly at him from the wall.

The first cut hurt. It always did.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as the blood started to flow. Falling from his arm to the floor. He made another one. Deeper, this time. His wrist turned into a red mess. The old scars had almost faded throughout the years - now he would invite them all back.

Another cut. More and more.

Sherlock welcomed the numbness in his head and his heart with open, bleeding arms.

John had died three weeks ago. The funeral had been held today, but Sherlock hadn't gone.

Distantly he heard how his phone vibrated. It was Mycroft, naturally. The history would be repeating itself in a few hours, his brother would bother to check on him eventually.

But Sherlock didn't care.

He didn't care because he wasn't sentimental. Not anymore.

He had lost his best friend. Yes, now he could form those two words in his head, _best friend_, because he had carelessly succumbed into the silence. Crawled away from his mind and his thoughts.

He had met his old two friends - the blade and the poison. A reunion he hadn't believed he would get. But here they were, threesome.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath.

John was gone now.

From the room. From Baker Street. From Sherlock's life. From his own, irritating head that kept thinking about the stupid dead doctor.

John was _gone_ now. And Sherlock felt like himself, right now on this moment. He gave the ceiling a dark smile. He had became the machine he had once been, inhuman and uncaring.

He was Sherlock Holmes now, the one who didn't have anything to get sentimental about.

The rest of the world could burn now, and he wouldn't give a damn. He had his mind, he had his logic. He had two of his old friends back, the ones that would never leave him or judge him. Sherlock had pushed the reset button on his heart.

With a shuddering satisfaction, he once more pushed the blade against the skin.


End file.
